Encore
by Hodgeheg
Summary: Even ten years later, when they asked the Capitol citizens which of the games were the most intense and memorable, the 42nd Hunger Games still managed to be one of the most popular. Co-written by Xymena Falling and Hodgeheg. SYOT- Open
1. The Prologue

Prologue

The Gamemaker's office, Capitol, Panem

The Gamemaker sighed as he looked over all the plans. Everything seemed in order. He glanced through the plans of the layout, before he nodded to himself. It had been a long few months getting the arena in order, and the past week had been manic in last minute complications with Cornucopia supplies, but at long last it was ready. Now all that was needed were the tributes themselves, but thankfully that was not under his jurisdiction. He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his slightly protruding stomach. He'd done good this year. The arena building was practically done, President Snow was pleased with the plans and now all he needed were the tributes that would make this set of games better than last year's. He was sure they would be- the arena design itself meant that he, the gamesmaker, could make the viewers watch on tenterhooks if the tributes themselves failed to entertain. In fact, the only people who seemed slightly disappointed with this year's plans were the designers of the arena-wear, since it was unnecessary to include many special adaptations.

Yeah well, screw them. Maybe next year's games they'd finally get their wishes of weird costumes with all sorts of add ons. But for now, they could stick with the usual. He didn't want these games to be known because of the weird outfits.

He allowed himself a smirk. These games would definitely be remembered.

**A/N: We don't own the Hunger Games.**

**This is an open SYOT, co-written by Hodgeheg and Xymena Falling. It's first come, first served, provided your tributes are good.**

**Future chapters will be longer ,and even though both us are currently in exam period we promise to update regularly once we have some tributes (once every 2 weeks as a minimum, and definitely longer once all the exams are over). **

**Rules and SYOT form are on Hodgeheg's profile. **


	2. The Reapings of District One

Chapter 2

District 1

Wisteria Thornton, district 1 escort

Wisteria sighed as she gazed at her appearance in the mirror. Wig, check. Eyelashes, check. Lipstick, check. Eyeshadow, check. Dress - her fingers ran over the dark blue silk - check. Her feet were docked in dark stockings and dark heels with large, artificial matching flowers adorning her wig. She sighed softly before dabbing strong smelling perfume on her pulse points before slipping on a high collared jacket- again pure silk- and with one final brush of blusher, she was ready.

It was nearly time for the reaping. She stood and made her way to the door, passing the peacekeepers standing guard outside her door as she did so.

Wisteria loved her job- the glamour, the attention, it was addictive and she had managed to secure the lucrative District One, which was a common source of victors. She herself had brought home a few victors in her time- less than she would like, but for Wisteria she settled for nothing less than the best, and so unless each and everyone of the victors during her time were from District One, she would never be completely satisfied- and was, as a result, treated with respect, adoration and luxury both in District One and in the Capitol.

The courtyard in front of the Justice Building wasn't completely full yet, she noted with a slight disapproving tone as she stepped out into the bright sunlight. The mayor of the District gave her a curt nod from his position, but Wisteria's gaze slid past him to the where the victors were seated. She caught sight of Awe, Wisteria's very first victor and subsequent favourite, who was busily exchanging pleasantries with another victor. Wisteria felt her heart swell with pride, before she was escorted to a seat to the side of the stage where she would wait until the Mayor had introduced her properly to the growing number of teenagers.

She watched the sea of mostly blonde heads bob forth into the correct sections. There was no anxiety among the children, people were relaxed, quietly chatting to their neighbour. And the weather was good, unlike last year where it had rained and it'd been terrible for her wig. It had been one of her favourite wigs, too.

She waited a few more minutes until all the people had been filtered in. The mayor stood up, a broad man dressed in a dark brown suit and shiny black shoes. Wisteria disagreed with the mayor's sense of fashion greatly and she stifled a shudder. Brown. Of all colours.

The mayor went by the name of Greenshaw, and he scratched his beard absently before coughing into the microphone.

"Lovely weather today." He began, and Wisteria smiled politely as she proceeded to drown out what the boring man said until her name was mentioned. "Here is our escort, Wisteria Thornton."

This was her cue. She stood up to a smattering of applause, and she walked forward to the microphone and the mayor retreated back.

"Welcome." She stated into the microphone, pleased it worked. A smile settled on her blue lips. "Welcome to the reapings for the forty-second Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour." There were a few wild whoops from the more excitable teens.

She scanned the crowd, particularly the 18 year olds sections. She always tried to guess who this year the volunteers would be, and she was sometimes right. Occasionally she was invited to the training centres and was able to overlook some of the particular favourites for that year. "Now, as is traditional, before we choose who are the lucky champions today we must first delve into the past and be reminded as to why we are all here today." That was the cue for the propaganda film to begin playing and the whole courtyard fell into a reverent silence as the projection started. Once it had finished, Wisteria spoke into the microphone again.

"Now... Boys first." She crowed happily, her eye landing on a cocky looking 18 year old.

A hand, laced in a black glove, reached into the glass bowl and she delicately selected a slip of paper, holding it up as she made her way to the microphone. It wasn't important whose name was on the slip, but she knew to hold it up.

"Varnish Dodge." She read out clearly, her eye once again settling on the boy from earlier.

"I volunteer!" A strong voice came from not the boy she was looking out. Her gaze shifted instead to the boy walking up to the platform. Attractive, she noted, with the dark curly hair and those green eyes. Her smile got broader. He would definitely fit as a victor.

"Your name is...?" She asked pleasantly, making space for him at the microphone.

"Quartz Markov." A nice strong voice too, that carried well. And a nice smile. He would do well in the Capitol.

"I'm guessing you're 18." She said politely. Try and coax a bit of personality out.

"No, I just look old for my age." He said dryly. "I'm actually twelve." There was a ripple of chuckles.

"Well," she tittered breathlessly. "A sense of humour is always nice." She paused. "And now for the girls." Wisteria picked her skirts up daintily and tip-tapped in her heels to the other reaping bowl. Her gaze drifted over the females, who stared back at her with anticipation, and she dipped into the glass bowl full of slips of paper, before returning to the microphone.

"Felissa Martin," she called out, and a fifteen year old started.

"I volunteer!" Wisteria snapped her attention to a seventeen year old pushing her way through the crowd towards the stage. Wisteria looked approvingly at her, noting the excited and fervoured expression. That tended to bode well for victors. The girl was pretty as well, with black hair tied back in a ponytail and a grin on her face. Some of the volunteers she got weren't so… attractive, and they were the ones who struggled to get sponsors.

"How lovely, two volunteers this year! And your name is…?"

"Citrine McLeod, but everyone calls me City," the girl replied, and Wisteria mentally congratulated her on her lack of fear. That would bode well in the Capitol.

"I see. And how old are you Citrine?"

"Seventeen."

"How lovely," she repeated. "Well, we have our tributes for District One." There was a loud round of applause, causing Citrine to grin and Quartz to smile. Wisteria nodded her head graciously, and gestured for the two tributes to make their way into the Justice Building.

"Well, now that we have our tributes, we shall have to bid you goodbye until next year, when we choose another two of you to compete in the ultimate of games. Goodbye, and remember, may the odds be ever in your favour." She exited the stage to tumultuous applause.

Both of the tributes were ushered into separate rooms and Wisteria sat down, crossing her legs. She never enjoyed this aspect of her job, there was always so little time to get to the Capitol yet a part of what precious time they had was wasted in this little routine..

A swarm of people entered Quartz's room. Parents, she presumed, and friends or siblings. She couldn't hear any conversation but the voices seemed jolly and cheerful. They had confidence in Quartz.

And so they should, Wisteria mused as she examined her jewelled fingernails. He was attractive, muscled and would probably woo the crowds.

Less people entered the girl's room, but from what she could hear there were similar reactions and the bubbly tone of the girl floated out into the hallway. Wisteria sighed. At least they were jolly in District One, unlike the other districts where the tributes tended to snivel and show weakness before they had even boarded the train. Wisteria despised crying.

People continued to enter the boys room and she saw him hugging a girl before the door closed again.

Wisteria stood up briskly in relief when the time was up and tributes were escorted out, smoothing invisible wrinkles in her skirts.

"Follow me. We'll be taking a train to the Capitol." She explained, standing up. "You'll really enjoy it." She herself preferred the hustle and bustle of the Capitol itself, but the train had advantages.

Quartz nodded in understanding, while Citrine simply looked impatient and it wasn't long before ushering them onto the train, closely followed by the mentors.

Wisteria smirked at the slightly awed looks of the tributes once they saw the interior of the train- it was the same reaction each year- before bustling over to an armchair.

"One of the avoxes will show you to your rooms, although it won't take too long to reach the Capitol. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable." Quartz nodded and flopped into another seat, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and eating it loudly. Wisteria pursed her lips slightly, whilst Citrine moved immediately to gaze out of the window, chattering aimlessly about what she had heard the Capitol to be like. Wisteria smiled politely whilst mentally correcting her, all the while trying to rid an oncoming headache- bubbly was good, but not overly so. It was going to be a long two weeks.

**A/N:** So here's the first reaping. There has been much debate over how this would be done, but in the end we settled for it being from the escort's pov. Hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for those who have sent in their characters. However, it's still wide open- there are even career spaces!- so feel free to send in your tribute. Details can be found on Hodgeheg's profile- pm her if you want to see your tribute in the story.

Please review!


	3. The Reapings of District Three

District 3

Augusta Arrow had decided that this year's colour was going to be green.

She smiled wanly at the crowd of dirty children before her, her bright green lips pressing together awkwardly. She didn't particularly like District 3. Too dirty, too messy, too poor. She was a relatively new escort and had been assigned district 3 after the old escort had died of old age. She secretly hoped for a better district soon, or at least a victor. She'd envied Eveline last year when she'd brought home a victor, beaming proudly next to them as the Capitol crowds cheered.

"Good morning District 3!" She said brightly, hoping for at least a reaction. No luck. The sea of faces watched impassively. A powdered green eyelid twitched.

"Well, let's just move onto the girls." She muttered, trying once more to put a bit of enthusiasm into her voice. Her hate for District 3 deepened. Why couldn't they see how hard this was for her? Why couldn't they even act a bit enthusiastically? They were doing this to spite her, she concluded. They were simply jealous of her, of her elegant dark green dress with the padded sleeves and jutting skirt, of her bejeweled heels, of her pale green wig, of her job, of her upbringing, of the very Capitol itself. There was no other explanation.

She took out a white slip of paper from the bowl and cleared her throat before reading out the name.

"Jade Cox." She read loudly, waiting for the child to reveal itself. Inside she prayed for an 18 or 17 year old, strong of will, mind and body who would catapult her to stardom.

There was a movement in the section for the 13 year olds. Great, Augusta thought bitterly. No 13 year olds ever won.

A small girl slowly moved up to the stage. Augusta supposed her hair was nice, an attractive red-brown colour and washed recently, and those blue eyes were blinking up shocked at her and the stage - the light suddenly reflected off a long, ugly scar decorated one cheek and Augusta automatically recoiled slightly, fighting to keep her smile in place. No, no, this child would not do. She wanted physical perfection, not scars.

Jade managed to get up the steps, nearly tripping on one of them. Augusta sighed. Clumsiness would not do. She hoped that she could have something to work with the boy. As an escort, her job was to focus on both the tributes and keep the media interested and happy, coordinating their movements, but no one would notice if the girl was left out in favour of the boy.

"Now for the boys." She projected once the girl - she'd already half forgotten her name - was safely on the platform, tip-tapping over to the other bowl. She picked a slip after a moment's deliberation, and broke the black tape.

"Steve Woolf." She looked up at the crowd, praying for a movement in the 18 year olds section, the 17 year olds section -

A small boy came up the aisle, large, watery brown eyes blinking up at her uncertainly.

Augusta once again fought to keep her composure. No, no, no! This was not what she wanted! Why hadn't she picked the slip just under his, or the one next to, or anything?

None the less, she was now stuck with two 13 year old children, one blinking owlishly at the crowd in a state of disbelief and the other looking like he was going to bawl his eyes out. She looked out to the crowd.

"Here are your tributes for the forty-second Hunger Games!" She allowed herself a small clap, her gaze changing to the ginger and brown heads either side of her as she turned smartly and ushered them into the building.

She looked at Jade.

Bloodbath.

She looked at Steve.

Bloodbath.

It didn't help that once they were inside, Steve actually did started crying. Definitely bloodbath. She gritted her teeth and ushered them into separate rooms for their allotted time to say goodbye and sat awkwardly on the hard wooden seat. She could hear more sobbing from Steve's room and she refrained from rolling her eyes. She despised the ones who cried, it showed when they got onto the train and made her job even harder. Not for the first time that day, she envied the escorts for districts one and two- even four was better than this. But no, she had landed herself in the district that was between the career districts, yet yielded hardly any victors.

Augusta smoothed down the emerald silk of her skirt as she waited for the family and friends and other assorted sentimental people to go smiled and nodded, but they either ignored her or glared at her. She had no time for the 13 year olds entering the rooms.

As the wailings reached a crescendo, Augusta made her way to the door that would lead her- and the tributes- to the train. Moments later she was joined by the two thirteen year olds, the boy having red rims around his eyes from where he had been crying, a crumpled tissue in his hand. "I don't understand the glumness, when you have the privilege of the Capitol awaiting you," she commented with a sniff. The door opened and they were ushered onto the train, a bright smile plastered on Augusta's face that was not entirely fake. They were off to the Capitol.

**A/N: Sorry, we both have exams (Not for Hodge any more! XD) and someone's internet happened to act up rather unhelpfully. It's a constant problem, the internet in Hodge's house tends to go down constantly.**

**Not to mention, we still have loads of spaces. The reason that this is for District 3 rather than 2 is that we don't have any district 2 tributes. And we would like some :p**


	4. The Reapings of District Two

**District 2, Panem.**

**Vespasian Chest, winner of the 38th Hunger Games**

Vespasian watched the crowd dispassionately. The sea of brown and black heads muddling, all talking amongst themselves. Like the happy people they are.

But he and the other victors, they were elevated. Others would die -quite literally- to reach their elevated level, but truth be told they had no idea what the repercussions would involve. Of course, often they didn't know- it wasn't as if the victors could go around proclaiming the flaws in their psyches as a result of their games since they would be killed- but sometimes Vespasian despaired at their naivety. No one ever spoke about killing, what it was like to really kill another human being.

The escort stepped forward and spoke. He didn't listen, too caught up with watching the other victors. Eumachia was a few metres away, her shiny black hair done up in a simple knot. She caught him looking and smiled briefly at him, and his heart thundered in his chest. But then too soon her attention was back on the escort, who was calling out a name - already? -

"Octavia Reuben!"

"I volunteer!"

A tanned girl with blonde and red hair moves up to the platform. There was a reluctance to her movements, a sigh in her eyes and there was no pride in her shoulders. They were all minor subtleties, probably overlooked by most, but he saw them. Not good. Someone who didn't want to volunteer. Not doubt peer pressured. Of course, people won from the outer districts, people who were reluctant, but he worried. A sad career, an unwilling career was not promising in any way.

He looked up at her face properly - and he'd seen her before somewhere. The unusual hair gave it away. He'd seem her in the training centre a few times. Quiet, kept to herself. Unlike the other trainees, who were social and boisterous. He didn't like her chances one bit. You needed something to come back to. Needed something to hold onto in the cold nights in the arena. They never told you that. They never said, only volunteer if you have someplace to call home. Some place, some one who you need to see again.

He didn't know her name, and neither did the escort.

"What's your name, darling?"

She opened her mouth sheepishly, and for a moment he was confused until his ears caught up -

"Lightning Dust."

Vespasin's face grimaced and there was an awkward ripple of laughter. Christ, what a name. She stuck out like a sore thumb with a name like that. He presumed her parents had no sense or taste. Eumachia's brown eyes twinkled amusedly at him and he smiled back, such an automatic reaction. He could never help but smile at her when she looked happy like times like these.

Lightning recoiled slightly to the reaction from the crowd, but the escort placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Well. That's certainly not an everyday name."

She nodded shyly.

Vespasian both pitied and hated her simultaneously. You needed to want victory. You needed to want victory, need it with every breath, every cell of your body. The price was too high.

The price of victory. He looked over at Eumachia again. She'd wanted victory, and she'd won. He himself had wanted victory and here he was. And he'd held Julia's face in his mind, his girlfriend with the brown hair and dark eyes, whose smile he'd thought of and imagined when he stabbed his district partner, or slit the throat of that girl from ten... He'd thought of her so many times. Every time he killed. Every time he closed his eyes. Every time he fought back.

"And now for the boys." The escort again brought him out of his musings. A hand was reached into the glass bowl and a slip of paper was taken.

"Galba Trinstone."

Whoever Galba was, they didn't move a muscle because someone was calling out already -

"I volunteer!"

His eye was drawn to the tall boy striding down the aisle, eyebrows drawn in concentration. He was not an attractive tribute - his face too long, which didn't match his curly hair - but he looked proud. Which was good. Vespasian approved of proud tributes. It meant they felt it was an honour.

It wasn't, really, victors would tell you that, but it did good to believe.

"What's your name sweetheart?" The escort asked. If there was one thing Vespasian had leaned, it was that the escort was very fond of cutesy greetings and the like.

"Quentin Moreland."

Another unusual name, he noted. Certainly more socially acceptable than 'Lightning Dust' anyhow.

He'd seen Quentin before, he knew. At the training centre. He was a fine tribute, Vespasian supposed. Came from a good family as far as he could remember. That was important. It wasn't so much your skill in the arena that kept you alive, although that was important- it was how well known you were, and how much people liked you. The more popular you were, the more sponsors you got and the less likely the gamemakers were to send something unpleasant your way. Coming from a good family created more of a support base in your district and compared to the other tribute… well, the odds seemed, at this moment in time, to be more in Quentin's favour than Lightning's.

His eyes faded as he rembered his own family. They'd been pleased, honoured, proud, clapping his name to the stars when he returned. Just like Julia. He could still remember the way she'd looked at him, and that kiss in front of the cameras, hungry and sweet.

When they'd broken up, it had been extensively covered in the magazines. "You're not the same anymore." Julia had hissed, right before she'd walked out of his life. And he'd wanted to reply, of course I'm not. I've seen hell. I've murdered children. But his tongue had been silent and stubborn.

Julia leaving had not caused his heart grief, but he had needed a rock. Someone to cling to when the nights grew terrifying. They all needed someone like that.

His eyes drifted back to Eumachia, clapping and smiling at the tributes.

They all needed someone, just like how he'd wrap his arms around her when she came back from the Capitol crying.


End file.
